


Okay

by HarmoniaChimera



Series: Peter Parker / Autistic!F!Reader [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Autism, Autistic Reader, F/M, Fluff and Angst, POV Female Character, Protective Peter Parker, Soft Peter Parker
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-16
Updated: 2018-12-15
Packaged: 2019-09-19 19:05:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17007417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HarmoniaChimera/pseuds/HarmoniaChimera
Summary: Sick of waiting for your boyfriend, you go to sleep early, at least until you’re woken by a sudden sound. And then you do things you never expected to be able to do.





	Okay

**Author's Note:**

> I have had this character in my head for a while now, trying to figure out a good plot to put her in. FYI, I still didn’t. So this thing is mostly just an experiment to explore what it would be like for Peter ‘Soft Boy’ Parker to get himself into a relationship with an autistic girl. With a side of mild smut.
> 
>  
> 
> **More parts incoming.**

lt’s not the thud of a body crashing against your wall or the slither of your window being edged open, or even the gush of cold air; it’s the whispered, half-disappointed, half-regretful ‘aww, man’ you hear behind you that ultimately wakes you up. You force an eye open as you turn around to watch Peter’s attempt to enter your room without making a sound.

“Peter?” you mumble, pretending to be confused in hopes of getting an actual explanation, but all you get is a 'yeah’ and 'Sorry I’m late’ as he closes the window behind him. You squint. “D…id something  _happen_?”

“No, why would you—”

“Then why are you in your suit?”

“Oh, uh, you know, I just, I just thought it would be easier to, uhh…” his voice trails off when you sigh deeply and rub your eye.

“You’re doing that… 'shrug-and-stutter’ thing again.” He feigns a look of surprise and confusion, illuminated by moonlight as he just stands there in the middle of your room like he’s waiting for something to explode. “The one you always do when you’re  _lying_. Why are you lying?”

“I’m not–!” He stops and sighs when the look in your only open eye hardens. “I  _may_ have gotten into a fight.”

You sit right up. “A…are you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m absolutely fine!” He comes over and sits on the edge of the bed, taking your concern as permission, and rightfully so. “I mean, I am slightly stabbed—” The look of alarm on your face says everything. “But just a little bit!” Your eyes and mouth and arms open helplessly. You don’t even have words anymore, so Peter fills in the silence. “I mean, look!” He unlocks the suit and lets it fall on the floor, and then points to an open wound on the side of his ribs. If it was ever bleeding, it stopped now. “See, it’s healing already!”

His tone is way too loud for your liking. “Okay,” you say, “do whatever you want.” And then you turn around and lie back down, pulling the heavy duvet over your shoulder and staring at the empty wall. You can hear Peter’s sigh behind you, but you’re way beyond trying to figure out what he might be feeling  _now_ —if he’s defeated, or fed up, or just changing his approach now that he can only listen to your sharp angry breaths.

And you can’t think about it far longer anyway. Your mind is soon overcome by all these… images. You see him come in through the window, just like tonight, but instead of apologizing, he reaches straight for you. Your heart pounds against your chest. He collapses against you, his dead weight pinning you down, and the blood starts seeping through his suit so badly you can  _see_  it: little droplets escaping between the fibers, gruesome in how it _shouldn’t_  be possible. You freak out, big time. You can’t call your parents—they know  _Peter_ , but they don’t know Spider-Man. You can’t call an ambulance—he’s still in his suit, and who would let them in? You can’t do anything except watch the boy you care about bleed out in your arms and then be stuck with a dead body you can’t even get rid of without betraying his identity  _and_  his memory.

How could he put you through something like that?

It takes everything you have not to have a meltdown right then and there—and then he slips under the fucking sheets. You move away quickly, before he touches you, by accident or otherwise. You can hear his sigh behind you. Does he know what’s happening? Can he hear the tears on your breath? Can he tell how badly you’re trying to stop yourself from stimming, feel the restless leg that just refuses to listen to the rest of you?

Does it even matter?

You stay like that for what feels like an eternity, your breaths getting only shallower and faster, until he says, “Hey… I’m sorry.” Your breath hitches in your throat. Is he–? Does he really–?

You make a long, miserable sound in protest, something only vaguely resembling an articulate word.

“Then what’s the problem?” he asks in his normal tone, as if you were just having a normal conversation. Your leg slows down a little bit but though you open your mouth as far as it will go, the words refuse to come.

“There's… There’s  _no_  solution…!” you finally force out, your voice miserable as it leaves, reluctantly, through your squeezed throat.

“I don’t understand, darling,” he says. You let out another whine and you can hear the worry on his breath behind you. “Do you think you could maybe look at me?”

As usual, the first part of that gets lost in your mind, stuck in a limbo somewhere between comprehension and senselessness. But you’ve learned already it’s just one of these things Peter does, like the 'uhh’ sounds he makes, or talking too much and too fast for you to understand—one of these things that you don’t have to worry about and you can ignore it, and he’s gonna be okay with it. Not like other people.

“Okay,” you mumble. A good minute later, you manage to calm yourself down enough to regain control over your body—so you start rubbing your palms together—and then another few pass before you find it in you to turn around a bit and warily eye his left shoulder. Peter lets out a relieved sigh.

“Hi, honey,” he says lightly.

You reply with something between a scoff and a chuckle. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see Peter’s gaze gliding across your face, to your tearful eyes, finally resting on your never-stopping hands. You expect a sigh, a worrisome look, touch, any attempt to stop you; instead, he just plays with the edge of the duvet and asks:

“So, what’s the problem? What do you need a solution for?”

Your hands immediately speed up. How could you possibly find the words to tell him? You take a few deeper breaths in an attempt to start talking, your eyes flicking from place to place, but it just doesn’t seem to be working, and that in turn only makes you more agitated. Tears prick at the edges of your eyelids, threatening to spill over, so you rub them away—and then you just can’t seem to be able to stop.

“Okay, okay, not the eyes,” he says right away. You can feel him moving but he knows better than to stop you by force; worry in his voice is clear even to you. “Come on, baby. Don’t do that. Just tell me what’s going on.”

For a moment, everything’s just your hands rubbing against your face, duvet, each other, as you rock back and forth, until you finally jerk up when everything spills out like a bad retch: “What… What if you  _came_  over just like this, but… but… What if you came over dy–“ A wheezing breath disturbs your speech, so you take a deeper one, fighting against your own body, and then you let it all go. “Whatifyoucameoverdyingandbleeding? And I  _couldn’t_ … Icouldn'tdoanythingandIcouldn'tcallhelp…  _‘Cause_  there’s no one to call and  _no one_ to help, and then you’d  _die_ , and there’s no  _solution_ , there’s no solution,  _no_  solution…”

“I wouldn’t do that, honey,” he says, his voice sludgy and heavy with his own swallowed tears. “I wouldn’t put that on you.”

You’re trying so hard not to lose it again, your hands feel so hot as if you could ignite a very dry log just by touching it. “Really?” You even look straight at him for a split second before descending back into yourself. “You’d be  _near_  death, and you wouldn’t  _come_  to see your  _girlfriend_  one last time?”

“No.” He says that so much more bluntly than anything else you’ve ever heard him say, ever, you stop rocking just out of shock. Which was probably his plan all along. “I’d go to Stark Tower,” he adds, softer.

You scoff because that’s easier than crying. “You’d never make it. It’s  _too_  far. You’d just…” And then it all comes back again, crashing into you and pulling you under like a tidal wave. “You'djustdropdeadonthewayandthen… and  _then_  you’d be  _gone_ …” You take a few shaky breaths but they’re nothing against the torrent of feelings. “And… and  _I_  wouldn’t even  _know_ 'cause who the hell would even  _tell_  a  _stupid girl_  like me?”

You make a move to knock the feelings out of your head 'cause they sure don’t deserve to be there; Peter blocks it, though, his hand suddenly appearing right next to your face. He doesn’t touch you in the slightest but you’re still startled enough to jerk away. You plop back onto the pillows and start to angrily rub your eyes, trying to calm down your breathing.

“Oh, hello there,” you suddenly hear, and then feel something jump onto the bed. Your cat, a fat ginger lady called Kat, because you’re just about the last person to have any need for names—your cat must’ve just heard or sensed the situation 'cause after climbing onto the duvet she makes her way over to you and throws herself in your arms. You start petting her, desperately and zealously, and let yourself be overcome by the calm emanating from the texture of her fur.

You do love your cat very much. Just like you, she’s a little weird, a little unpredictable, a little distant. She only likes being touched when it’s on her terms, prefers the quiet, and isn’t very good at nuances. But most importantly, she’s the best meltdown cure in the house, and she knows it, and she likes it.

Peter gives you a few moments to settle into a rhythm before he finally replies, “Aunt May would.”

You give him a look. “Aunt  _May_  doesn’t even  _know_  about me.” You shift your gaze back to Kat mumbling under your breath, “Which is a whole other issue.”

If Peter acknowledges that last part, it’s only with a soft unhappy sigh. He’s silent for the longest time, like when he’s going through all of the data in his head, analyzing it all again. That’s what you always liked about him, even before you were together, and that’s what ultimately led to you two  _being_  together—his genius mind. Now, however, you appreciate the quiet while it lasts.

Which, frankly, isn’t very long. “Give me your phone,” he says suddenly. You stare at him for a moment while your slow brain, in turn, analyzes the words, before you finally reach under your pillow to just drop the phone on the duvet on front of him while Kat settles herself in the nook of your neck. If Peter notices how badly you don’t want to touch him, he doesn’t comment even with a look. He just takes the phone, unlocks it (how did he ever know your password?), and starts tapping away at it. You let him do whatever he wants while you spend some quiet quality time with Kat.

“Here.” He gently drops the phone into your open palm so as not to touch you by accident. The screen shows the contact details to Tony Stark. You look at Peter with what you hope is a question in your eyes. “If anything like that ever happens, you can call him. He can be here in, like, thirty seconds, and he’ll know what to do.” You look back at the phone. Oh, boy. You don’t know if you’re more impressed by having Tony Stark’s personal number on your phone now or by Peter apparently knowing it by heart. “Does this count as a solution?”

You ponder the question for a while. “…Okay,” you say and give him the phone back.

He turns all the apps off, locks it, and puts it in the charging station—just the way you like it. He then smiles at you softly and taps his shoulder. “Cuddle?”

“Okay.” You gently shift Kat onto the pillow and move closer to Peter, slowly, very slowly placing your cheek on his chest. He pulls the duvet a little higher up your arm and puts his hand there. You choke on the emotion just before you shrug the cover off and move his hand to your bare shoulder. It’s a bit cold against your skin, but nothing you can’t handle now that you’ve calmed down. That  _he’s_  calmed you down. You snuggle into him a little more and he rewards you with a kiss before starting to stroke your head with his other hand. You can imagine he’s watching for the slightest indication you don’t like what he’s doing but frankly, at this point, being woken after having gone to sleep early because of how tired you were in the first place, is slowly catching up to you. If anything, his gentle caress is soothing and rocking you to sleep. That is, of course, until Kat bites into his other extended arm.

He jerks away—in vain, on top of that—bumping your head up with nothing but his bicep. You don’t even try to stifle quiet laughter as you watch him trying to unhook the suddenly blood-thirsty cat from his hand and elbow. Kat’s having none of it, happily torturing him into almost screaming out in pain, at least until you finally take mercy on him and gently remove her. She hangs in your hands with her teeth and claws still bared, but it takes one of your hard looks for her to go back to her adorable, doe-eyed self. Well, like you said—unpredictable.

You set her down in the feet and pet her until she lies down, but as soon as you stop, she hisses at Peter one last time and sprints away. You chuckle again, but he looks perfectly offended, complete with a hand clutching at his chest and indignantly open mouth. You chuckle harder and then he finally smiles. “I don’t think she likes me,” he says.

“She  _just_  likes to  _hunt_  spiders.”

Peter does that face again, tearing another bout of laughter out of you, until you both sit there giggling at each other like high school girls (which, you suppose, you are), but quietly, so that your parents don’t hear that not only is it past midnight and you’re still not asleep, but to add insult to injury, you have a  _boy_  in your bed. Even if they occasionally adore said boy more than you and strongly believe he’s very good for you.

You finally settle back down (while Kat grumpily curls herself up in the armchair). Somehow, you end up almost fully on top of Peter, possibly because he was pulling you along the entire time. And to your surprise, you find you don’t mind at all. It actually feels good, your hands rubbing against his bare chest.

“My  _parents_ would have a meltdown if they saw us like this,” you mumble.

Peter chuckles against himself, but then stops and gives you a look. “Was that an autistic joke?”

“Okay,” you reply with an attempt at a shit-eating grin, but even though that’s way beyond your face’s emotional range, Peter laughs anyway.

“You little vixen,” he says, his hands squeezing your hips. The comparison between you and a small female fox is a bit beyond your comprehension, but you give him the benefit of the doubt. Especially since the way he touches you, firmly pressing on your muscles, is starting to feel particularly good. You let out a deeper breath.

“Is this okay?” he makes sure.

“Okay,” you mumble, your voice as surprised as uncertain. Peter flashes you his signature Kind Smile No. 6™, drawing a groan out of your throat. You hate his signature smiles… not.

You let your head fall gradually lower as you lose yourself in his caress, until you find your nose nearly touching his. You try to move away startled, but by that time, his hand is already in your hair. He doesn’t attempt to stop you and you know without a doubt that if you really wanted to pull away, he’d let you, but… His gaze falls to your lips and that’s enough to draw you in like a moth to a flame.

Your breathing accelerates in all the  _good_  ways as you descend slowly until you finally brush your lips against his, giving him an uncertain kiss. Peter smiles softly against your lips even as you pull away.

“How did that feel?” he asks, brushing a lock of your hair out of the way.

“Very strange,” you say, “but not unpleasant.”

“Good,” he only adds before gently pulling you in again. Another sweet kiss gently graces your lips. “You’re okay, honey.” And another. “I’ll take good care of you.”

You barely hear what he’s saying at this point, your mind blank, every barely coherent thought pushed out by a tangle of emotions and hormones.

And no, you’ve never kissed before. Not anyone, and with Peter… Well, you’ve only been together a few months, haven’t you? You’ve barely let him touch your arm, let alone do something like… this. This entire night’s starting to feel like a very confusing dream. You never thought you’d even be capable of letting someone in so close.

Peter’s hands slowly roaming your body lift your shirt up ever so slightly, but enough for your bare abdomen to brush against his. The sensation is electrifying and sends shivers up your spine, but also in a very surprising way satisfies your budding need to stim. So much even that a small moan escapes your lips, causing Peter to pull away and look at you carefully. “What is it?” he asks, unable to find anything wrong at first sight.

“I like this,” you say quietly, maybe a bit surprised at your own body’s reactions. Peter doesn’t seem to be following, but grasps the idea when you lift your shirt even higher to be able to rub your breasts against him. You could swear he’s just as red as his suit is, and judging by the hotness you’re feeling, you probably are, too. His lips open wide in a gasp and his hands squeeze your hips even tighter. You like it.

One more deep kiss has you both gasping for air and wanting for more. You shamelessly rub against him, up and down, repetitively, while he runs his hands from your hips to your neck and back again, reaching in for every next kiss. At last he parts your lips and slips his tongue inside and you pull back, surprised by how it feels against yours.

“Hey, I thought you liked rubbing,” he quips lightly, but even you can tell he’s worried he might’ve overreached.

“I’m not sure,” you reply, and immediately belie yourself by doing another round up his body. You can feel his hardness against your thigh now, meaning he must’ve bravely been keeping himself at bay all this time.

“I’m sorry,” he says as soon as he figures out what you’re looking at in the dark.

“Okay,” you reply, your hand slowly slithering down his torso already. There have been so many new sensations you’ve discovered tonight that your curiosity takes precedence over your fear. But Peter gently grabs your wrist anyway.

“You don’t have to do this,” he whispers softly, his other hand brushing away all your hair again so he can have a look at you.

“I know.” You set your gaze on his neck instead of looking him in the eye.

Peter clearly has no idea what to do with your answer. “I just, uh, I just don’t want you to think that I won’t be happy if you don’t, you know, do that, 'cause I… I’m already very much happy just because you… I mean, I’m really glad to be part of your… um, part of this with you. I don’t need you to… I mean, you don’t have to do anything about that thing, it’s just a reaction.”

You blink at him for a good few seconds. Most of that went right over your head, especially with how light it now feels; and that which remained didn’t make much sense. Peter sighs softly.

“I don’t expect anything from you, honey,” he goes on. You frown and make a sound, and Peter’s hands are back on your bare waist in an instant. “Don’t get me wrong, I want you  _so_ much…”

“Okay.” You let your hand fall lower yet, but he grabs it again and kisses your fingers. “Hm?”

“But I  _don’t_  want you to do this just because you think I need you to.” He sighs, clearly struggling to find words that would make sense to you. “If we ever do it, I want it to happen because  _you_  want to. Like, really want to.”

“Peter.” You barely ever call him by his name, so he knows to shut up when you do. “For now I just  _wanna_  see how it  _feels_  in my hand.”

“Oh. Alright.” He gives your hand another kiss, then lets it go. “Knock yourself out, then.”

You eye him and he apologizes quickly for the choice of words. “Can you  _kiss_  me, though?” you ask.

“I think I can.” He pulls a ‘you’ with a grin, but draws you in before you can react and you groan against his lips. He lets go of you for a split second, looking into your eyes while yours trace the lines of his jaw. “You know you can kiss me, too, right?”

“It’s easier  _when you_  initiate it.” Peter accepts your explanation by initiating another one. You let his tongue slip in between your lips again, but this time, you don’t move back. Instead, you sheepishly meet him halfway and try to explore the sensations again. Peter lets you have your fun without moving around too much, but when you pull away, you can tell by his gaze and deep, open-mouthed breaths that he really wanted to deepen that kiss until you both choked on each other.

The sight makes the hotness return in force and you pant wantonly straight into his mouth as your hand makes its way down and into his boxers. You twitch when a small drop of wetness is the first thing you feel, but… well, you should’ve expected that. You move a little lower, your fingers brushing against his erection until it twitches right into the palm of your hand. Peter gasps softly as you explore its length, pressing your skin against his. It doesn’t give in any, and in fact seems to be pushing back against your hand.

“Wow,” you mumble.

Peter looks away with what you can you can only interpret as red-cheeked abashment. “You have zero-point-zero comparison.” You suddenly burst out into stifled laughter against his cheek, until he finally looks at you and asks, “What did that 'wow’ mean?”

“ _I_  didn’t expect it to  _fit_  into my hand so well and  _feel_  so  _robust_  at the same  _time_.”

“ _Robust_?” He gives a look but you only shrug in response and show him what you mean. He bites his lip, his hips gently pushing him into your hand. He latches onto the back your head, shifting his legs, and you let him press himself against you, kissing your temple, then your lips. He can barely breathe. You, in turn, slowly descend into something like a mix of pride and joy, and fear. You never expected to be able to make him feel so good from the get-go, and it’s nice to know that you can, you suppose, but when he’s being so wildly intense, surrendering himself to the pleasure, you in turn are starting to feel trapped and overwhelmed. Peter must be feeling your pulse racing, or recognizing your meagre attempts to get away for what they truly are, 'cause he groans and takes a look at you, his eyes glazed over with pleasure.

“Please,  _please,_ ” he begs as he all but fucks your hand in abandon, “please don’t freak out  _now_ …”

But you do, you are freaking out, and as soon as he realizes there’s another meltdown brewing, he immediately stops himself with some effort, and then cups your face and looks you in the eye. You look away, letting out a small apologetic groan.

“No, I’m sorry.” He kisses your forehead ever so softly. “I shouldn’t have done that.” Once you place your wet hand on his chest, he gently brushes his fingers over it as you take a moment to calm down. “Although, you know what? Maybe it  _is_  your fault for making me lose my mind.”

You scoff, then chuckle. Peter kisses the palm of your hand, his tongue brushing against it, sending shivers down your spine as he licks off his own pre-cum. Hotness overtakes your cheeks again when you watch him, his eyes tracing yours.

“Still  _not_ done, are you?” you quip, but between the fading fear and new budding arousal, it comes out only as a weak, uncertain question.

“Do you want me to be?” He takes your fingers in his mouth, meeting your gaze, so you pull yours away, and it just so happens that it falls on your night clock. A one, a four, and a seven shine blue and judging at you.

“Peter…”

“Alright, alright, I’ll stop…” You don’t say anything else, so he follows your gaze. “Ohh, crap.”

“Mm,” you mutter in agreement. “ _And_  we have school  _in_  the morning.”

Peter pulls you gently into your previous position. As soon as your head rests on his chest, you feel the debt of sleep catching up to you, again. “We should go to bed, then. Right? And, like, yesterday.”

You chuckle against him, already dozing off even as you mumble, “Okay.”


End file.
